


stars in their lungs

by kingblake



Category: Now You See Me (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, i guess?, i know i never said either of their names and I KNOW that I didn't capitalize anything, im new to this whole scene so idk what to tag it with, its for the aesthetic, ok I'm trying out a new writing style so pls don't hate me, trust me - Freeform, whimsicality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingblake/pseuds/kingblake
Summary: in which our protagonists discover themselves and reflect on the complex simplicity of their beautifully woven relationship.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacecrimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacecrimes/gifts).



> "the small of my back has seen so much–  
> my vertebrae are a printing press and  
> i leave copies of myself in every bed i’ve ever slept.  
> this ache is an old one, indeed; so i’m sorry  
> for all the things i made you carry for me.  
> but no one ever tells you that when  
> you’re picking up your heart, you  
> better be lifting with your knees."
> 
> \- ashe vernon

nothing is ever locked, he says.

it's easy for him, because he holds the keys to the world in his hands. he sweeps open doors with a smile and crosses the threshold with a twinkle of his eye and a wave of his hand.

magic, you call it.

he just calls it luck.

fingers of light fall across his path of naïvety and he walks in the wake of a sunbeam, warming up every room he's in. he opens doors without trying and even doors that are padlocked and sealed pry themselves loose in the presence of his soul.

(but who can blame him?)

he's a hurricane of brightness and he takes his fingers to your lungs, scraping out the tar that's built up over the years.

he drains your body of the sludge that's settled in your veins and when he's through with you, he leans back to admire his work, offering you a smile he reserves only for the most special people in his life.

he scrubs the dead weight from your body, holds you until you're warm again, and he loves you- he loves you so much that even if your body tries to turn him away, tries to lock him out- your doors open.

(but who can blame _you_?)

he wears his love like a four letter word and he embraces his tenderness, waiting for the love he's given up to snap his neck. he's done this before, too many times. he gives himself up to emotion and he's broken by it, ripped limb from limb by the one thing he knows how to give.

your whole relationship is a dance- a complicated waltz, a two step with choreography only the two of you understand. you lock your doors to everyone. nobody gets in, and nobody gets out.

when he comes along, though, your door unlocks itself. you immediately hand over the keys to your inner workings, the cogs grinding within your existence. he knows that you don't open for anyone, that you don't trust anyone enough to let them see the most vulnerable, raw parts of you.

when he comes along, you peel yourself open. you claw at your own skin, pulling back the mask of uniformity and grandeur that you've so carefully sewn into your charred, broken flesh.

he presses his fingers to your bare soul, his fingertips butterfly-light (he _is_  the sleight of course, he's very good with his hands) and he begins to patch you up, injecting beams of light into your bloodstream. his minty breath cools the skin of your face and wraps around your throat, begging you to breathe, to be okay again.

nothing is ever locked, he tells you.

not for him, at least. you leave your door unlocked and your porch light on for him. he gravitates to you, and even though he's perfectly capable of pushing himself through your threshold, he knows to wait.

you stand on the lowered edge of a hanging scale and when he puts his boot on the other end, the two of you teeter on the axis of a perfect balance. you trust him enough to give up control of your locking system and he knows that even though you've given him full permission to your heart, he shouldn't (and _doesn't_ ) force himself in. he stands at the door and waits, knocking lightly and deftly, allowing you to fulfill your need to open the door for him.

he is impulse and chaos and you are calculations and order. he is passionate poetry and you are long dissertations, factual and precise. you are the yin to his yang. the night to his day.

but nothing's ever locked, he reminds you.

you're not just yin, and he's not just yang.

within you is a light not many people get to see. when he scrubs away your charred skin and your blood-soaked demeanor, he unlocks a side of you that emerges with triumph, white head rearing with an unspoken power and palpable influence. when you become the yang, the darkness you've known as your life's companion quiets itself and fades to a pale grey.

but you can see that darkness inside him. you can see it when he bends the wrong way, when he flinches at the smallest gesture of your hand. you've seen his heart and it looks like the wrong side of a knife fight, tattered and bruised and just barely beating.

it's not your fault, he assures you. he takes your hand and presses your cold fingertips to his warm lips. it's not your fault.

when he tears himself open for you, when he exposes his soul, bruised and scarred, he lets you see the shadows that fill his lungs and the smoke that trickles through his open veins with each desperate pump of his mangled heart.

you take your fingers and pull them through his essence, sharing some of the light he's given you. you siphon out the smoke in his soul, take it into your own, and when you're through cleaning him out, he turns right around and does the same to you.

it's an endless cycle of comfort and care, unabashed and unspoken. you want to save him, and he wants to save the world.

he wears his love like a jacket around him and when you slip your fingers underneath his shirt, you feel the scars of a broken childhood and slow healing. he's taken time to stitch himself together, bruise by bruise, open wound by open wound.

his back is a kaleidoscope of scar tissue and broken promises and when you press your palms against his shoulders, you swear you can feel the places where his angel's wings used to be.

nothing is ever locked, he tells you with a smile.

because he knows he's managed to open the impenetrable safe, the magnetically-sealed bomb fortress that you yourself crafted out of brick and mortar and blood.

he's unlocked your heart, and he knows it.

and you're okay with that.

**Author's Note:**

> did you enjoy? i tried out a new style and i think ?? it's better than what I've been doing? feedback is much appreciated, thank u!! hmu on twitter @jacksatlas if u wanna talk!!


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